


a winter pas de deux

by superpol



Category: Haikyuu!!
Genre: M/M, Mild Language, because they curse a little, merry christmas?, oh well, this is really stupid tbh, whoops
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-12-27
Updated: 2015-12-27
Packaged: 2018-05-09 19:50:30
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,322
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5553017
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/superpol/pseuds/superpol
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Iwaizumi is the strong hand on his lower back when the world is going to shit.</p>
            </blockquote>





	a winter pas de deux

**Author's Note:**

> okay, so this is for lovely [@kevinkevinsonnn](https://twitter.com/kevinkevinsonnn) who was giving away amazing art prints the other day. their art is wonderful (go check it out!) so i thought it'd be unfair for them not to get anything in return so. here it is.
> 
> this fic is so stupid, tho. hahahaha fuck.

  
  
  
  
  
It starts with a dare. Or with something as close to a dare as any. They are shopping for Christmas presents, for scarves and gloves and maybe socks. Nothing too fancy because they are going off to college in a few months and they are saving up as much money as possible. Tooru is navigating through shelves and showcases and mannequins when he suddenly stops, turns to Iwaizumi and says, “Look at those sweaters.”

He points to a colorful amalgam of fabric and prints and shapes. One of those images that can stop someone dead in their tracks, a beacon of color out of the corner of the eye. Some sweaters have sappy messages written across the chest, some have cheerful Christmas patterns, some have tiny aliens all over the wool.

Iwaizumi takes one look at them and scoffs. His nose scrunches up and Tooru remembers calling him a gremlin when they were six and had bruises all over their knobbly knees.

“They are hideous, Oikawa,” Iwaizumi says, which is pretty much what he’s expected to say.

Tooru laughs and grabs one, pressing it against the wide expanse of Iwaizumi’s chest, judging the size and the fabric and how well the pattern goes with dark green eyes. The body underneath his fingertips is warm and hard and Tooru reprimands himself for thinking about it.

(He really has to stop thinking about Iwaizumi that way.)

He smiles instead, that bland little thing Iwaizumi has told him thousands of times he doesn’t like.

“I dare you to wear it,” he says, petulant.

Iwaizumi bares his teeth, snatches the sweater from his fingers and takes a look at the tag. He hesitates for a second, a worry line between his eyebrows, before he carefully folds it again (and oh, Iwazumi can be so careful when nobody is watching). He leaves it on top of the matching pile and doesn’t meet Tooru’s eyes.

“You’re lucky. It’s too expensive,” he says and without a second glance, walks to a shelf full of skinny jeans they both know he won’t buy either.

Tooru looks at the sweater and thinks, _of course_. He thinks, _Iwaizumi is right_. He thinks, _we have to save up because we are going off to college_. And there it is, the hurt. Because yes, they are going off to college, but they aren’t going together. There won’t be a together in this and that’s new and terrifying, and Tooru feels something heavy and metallic settle on his stomach.

Iwaizumi is looking at sweatpants now, his shoulders tense and his dark hair more tousled than usual.

Tooru is going away and he’s staying.

It’s not fair.

Tooru grabs the sweater.  
  
  
  
  
People who don’t know them usually think Iwaizumi can’t stand him. That he trails behind him because he’s kind of his keeper, kind of like his guardian. Someone who feels compelled to look after Tooru for the sake of the team.

Those people are not entirely wrong, but they aren’t right either. Iwaizumi is his keeper, yes. He’s the one who calls Tooru every night to see how he’s doing, if he’s been sleeping. He’s the one who stays with Tooru during his last-minute doctor’s appointments when his knee decides to act up. 

(He’s the one who started a fight with older boys when they were five because they had taken Tooru’s coloring book. He ended up with a bloody nose and Tooru’s worried snot all over his shirt.)

But.

But their relationship is not an obligation. It’s not a chore.

Things Iwaizumi Hajime is: his keeper, his conscious, the better part of him.

Things Iwaizumi Hajime is not: an asshole, a faker, a bully.

And here Tooru has to stop whatever he’s doing to just _breathe_ because sometimes he can’t stand how careful Iwaizumi is with him. Because under the prickly surface and angry act, Iwaizumi knows Tooru bruises easily. He knows Tooru holds himself tall in front of strangers when things go awry, but feels like crying and breaking down when they are alone.

Iwaizumi is the strong hand on his lower back when the world is going to shit.

Tooru thinks about that as he wraps up the sweater in the prettiest paper.  
  
  
  
  
His mother and his sister shoo him out of the kitchen, out of the living room, out of the house. “You’re being a nuisance, darling,” his mom says right before she ruffles his hair and closes the door on his face. A lousy-dressed outcast in December cold.

Takeru is watching him from behind the window curtain and laughing, so Tooru sticks out his tongue and turns around dramatically.

Only one place to go as the women in his house take over Christmas Eve.

Iwaizumi’s mom is nothing like his son. She has a soft face and even softer hands. She smiles happily more often than not and looks kind of ethereal. Tooru loves her as much as he loves his own family, but then again the Iwaizumis are part of his family at this point.

“Tooru!” she gasps as she opens the door. Her dark eyes are round and curious. She’s extremely smart. Maybe Iwaizumi takes after his mother after all. “It’s so nice to see you!”

She means it. Tooru gives her his brightest grin.

“Is Hajime home?” he asks, trying to see over her shoulder in case Iwaizumi is glaring at him from the living room.

His mom seems amused for a moment, before she makes way for him to step in and take off his boots. “He’s in the kitchen,” she says, “cooking.”

Oh.

 _Oh_.

Tooru smiles and says a late, “Pardon the intrusion,” as he enters the living room. It’s a humble home, the Iwaizumis’. Tiny and simple, but packed to the brim with photographs and books and volleyball trophies. It’s a welcoming house for a welcoming family.

Iwaizumi’s dad is setting the table (or to be more precise, the kotatsu, because this family doesn’t care for formal dinners) and looks up when Tooru crosses the threshold, a small smile blooming on his features. And Iwaizumi’s definitely his father’s son. Dark hair, square shoulders, a strong jaw. The really low voice.

“Hi there, Tooru.”

Tooru smiles.

(However, there are things in Iwaizumi Hajime that come from nowhere. Like the freckles over his nose, or the strong muscles, or the sly smirk, or that mean right hook. Things that make Tooru sigh and bite his lips and pray his emotions are not written all over his face.)

“I’m here to look for my precious friend,” Tooru singsongs. “Apparently he got lost in the _kitchen_.”

A second ticks by and then—

“Come say that to my face, loser!”

Iwaizumi’s dad smiles apologetically and Tooru bursts out laughing.

Cooking is something Iwaizumi Hajime is fairly good at. He’s not creative when it comes to it, but the result is always delicious anyway. He’s also a very neat cook, so when Tooru sets foot in the kitchen, things are in their proper place, steaming and smelling like heaven.

“Hey,” he says as he peers over a pot, his glasses fogging up.

Iwaizumi taps him in the arm, closes the lid on the pot, and with his hip cocked to the side, says, “Hey yourself.”

He’s wearing an apron and his sleeves are rolled up to his elbows. Tooru swallows and stares back at the pot.

“So,” he says, “what are you having tonight?”

Iwaizumi grunts, but tells him anyway.  
  
  
  
  
Tooru is extremely afraid of his graduation ceremony. He’s afraid he’ll run out of buttons to give. He’s afraid the day will be a splendid one, all sunlight and cherry blossoms and warm weather that has nothing to do with how he feels inside. He’s afraid it will rain, drops clinging to their uniforms and their hair and their shoes, ruining the day for his friends.

He’s afraid he’ll cry. Harder than in his whole life.

He’s afraid Iwaizumi will cry. Tears streaming down his face in a furious fashion, always keeping it together until he breaks.

(Tooru’s afraid the day will come and go, and he won’t be able to tell Iwaizumi the truth about himself. About how he feels.)  
  
  
  
  
**To Iwaizumi [draft]:**  
you know i’ll miss you, right?  
  
  
  
  
Christmas morning isn’t white, but it’s cold. Really cold. Iwaizumi’s nose is red and shiny when he knocks on his door, scarf pulled up to his ears. Tooru lets him in and takes his coat off his shoulders, trying very hard not to stare at those flexing muscles.

“Hajime-chan!” Tooru’s mother cries, not hiding her delight at all. She’s so much like Tooru it’s scary.

Iwaizumi doesn’t seem fazed at all by it, and smiles that gentlemanly grin of his that can make mothers all over the world cry. And he may not be all that pretty, but when he smiles like that Tooru wants to melt into a puddle of his own frustration.

(People who say Iwaizumi Hajime isn’t handsome can very well go fuck themselves, in Tooru’s opinion.)

Of course his mother blushes a little at the smile. But that’s okay, because Tooru blushes a little too.

“Merry Christmas,” Iwaizumi greets.

“We were having tea,” his mom says brightly, “you should definitely stay.”

And here she gives Tooru a _look_ because mothers have this sixth sense where they know shit.

God, she’s so much like Tooru.

“Of course,” Iwaizumi says and that’s when Tooru notices the wrapped gift he’s carrying under his arm.

He can’t help himself. He grabs Iwaizumi and pulls him towards his room, a carelessly _sorry, mom, he’ll have tea later_ thrown over his shoulder. He climbs up the stairs two steps at a time, Iwaizumi keeping up with him out of sheer will and experience.

Safely hidden in his room, Tooru turns around with a huge grin. Iwaizumi looks pissed.

“Is that for me?” he asks openly, pointing at the gift.

Iwaizumi arches a dark eyebrow and gives him an unimpressed stare.

There’s a pause.

“Well, is it?”

“I’m considering it.”

Tooru whines, Iwaizumi sighs.

“Yes, it is, you big baby.”

The wrapper is a bright gold and thinking about the word _king_ makes Tooru flush.

He scrambles for his own present then, pulling it out of his drawer and handing it impatiently to Iwaizumi. It’s not wrapped at neatly as his, but Tooru is too busy staring at Iwaizumi’s surprised eyes to notice.

“For you,” he says, voice higher than he intended. He holds out his hands and feels a blush take over his ears and damn it, _not now_.

Iwaizumi sits on his bed (oh, he always looks so good on his—) and takes the gift, leaving his own next to him, on top of Tooru’s blue comforter.

“Come sit down,” he says, carefully removing the wrapping paper. His hands are so gentle as they try not to rip it open that Tooru finds himself transfixed. It’s such a small thing to notice, such a silly detail about how composed and careful Iwaizumi can be, Tooru stabs his fingers into his thigh just to snap out of it as he sits down.

Iwaizumi unwraps his present as one might open a window, fully and wide.

And then he starts laughing, pulling out the sweater and unfolding it. It has snowmen in it, tiny little round shapes with mistletoe and reindeers. White and red over dark green.

“God, it’s as ugly as I remember,” Iwaizumi says. Then he turns to Tooru and adds, “I like it.”

He pushes his own gift against Tooru’s legs and proceeds to switch sweaters. And it’s a good thing Tooru has suddenly something to occupy his hands with because, oh god. Iwaizumi undresses carelessly and angrily and that makes things to Tooru’s stomach.

He’s not as patient as Iwaizumi when it comes to presents, so he rips the paper off and finds a nondescript box under it. He’s about to make a snide comment about Iwaizumi’s lack of taste, but he swallows it whole the minute he takes the lid off and sees what’s inside.

Oh.

It’s a knee support. Not unlike the ones he uses, but.

But this one has a print. A dorky, colorful print.

“Iwa-chan,” he gasps, “is this a Star Wars—?”

Yes. Yes, it is. Tiny R2D2s and C-3POs and Millennium Falcons and BB-8s. Lightsabers and Death Stars and X-wing starfighters. They all form what looks like a pattern, except. Except they are all different, and when Tooru looks closer, he sees why.

They are handmade. Painted. Iwaizumi painted them _himself_. Every single one of them, every detail in the drawings, every brushstroke. And he can almost see the time Iwaizumi spent doing this. The minutes, the hours, the days.

Tooru looks up and finds Iwaizumi staring at him.

“It’s okay, right?” he says. “I mean, you love Star Wars.”

Tooru can’t breathe.

He can’t—

“I know the drawings aren’t that good,” Iwaizumi continues, his jaw clenched, a blush crawling over his cheeks. “If you don’t like it, I can buy something else.”

Tooru licks his lips, gasps, turns his whole body to Iwaizumi.

“No, I love it,” and it comes out so breathless he feels a little bit ashamed. “Iwa-chan, this is amazing, I—”

He tries again, but his voice is stuck. His eyes prickle. Iwaizumi stares at him weirdly all of a sudden and, god. The sweater looks so good on him. He seems softer, he looks handsome and Tooru hates himself a little for thinking that because he can’t do anything about it. He can’t help feeling attracted, feeling the warmth crawling up his spine and blossoming inside his chest.

(God, that boy painted him a knee support for when he goes away.)

His vision becomes blurry and it has nothing to do with his contact lenses.

“Come here,” Iwaizumi murmurs and he opens his arms wide.

Tooru sighs, but doesn’t hesitate when he leans into Iwaizumi and circles his waist with his arms. He buries his nose where shoulder meets neck and smells cologne and wool and soap. He smells Iwaizumi and thinks about breaking down and crying.

Callused, stubby fingers find his hair and the world tilts a little.

“Iwa-chan,” Tooru sobs before he can stop himself.

Iwaizumi’s voice is in his ear, low and gentle.

“It’s going to be okay.”

Tooru believes him.  
  
  
  
  
The thing about best friends is that you know all their flaws and wishes and _secrets_. Tooru could do with a little less secrets, if he’s being honest. It’s not that Iwaizumi has many; he’s a pretty straightforward guy and Tooru adores him for it, but. But. But Iwaizumi is not made of stone and there are things Tooru wishes he didn’t know. Like how he had a crush on that girl back when they were twelve, or how that other girl confessed to him at fourteen. Or how he briefly dated someone when they started high school, but he refused to tell Tooru anything about it.

Tooru hates knowing (but he hates not knowing even more).

Because the thing about best friends is that you know all their secrets, but the thing about being _in love_ with your best friend is that those secrets can hurt you. Which sucks. Especially if you’re Oikawa Tooru and you’ve been in love with Iwaizumi Hajime since you were eleven.

(Or maybe younger, but he didn’t know what love really meant back then).

So the thing is Iwaizumi likes girls and Tooru likes Iwaizumi, but pretends to only like girls too, and this feels like a game he has been playing since forever, for their own good. Or at least for their friendship’s own good, because Tooru would rather have Iwaizumi like this than not have him at all.  
  
  
  
  
**From Iwaizumi:**  
what are your plans for new year?

 **To Iwaizumi:**  
are you going to steal me away, iwa-chan? so bold!

 **From Iwaizumi:**  
shut up, nerd

 **From Iwaizumi:**  
wanna go the watch the fireworks?

 **To Iwaizumi:**  
so romantic of you! i wouldn’t have guessed!

 **From Iwaizumi:**  
yes/no question, oikawa. pick one

 **To Iwaizumi:**  
so rude and mean :(

 **To Iwaizumi:**  
but yes  
  
  
  
  
Mattsun keeps looking at him like a creep. Or at least more like a creep than usual. Tooru huffs, looks up and says, “What is it?”

If Mattsun were Hanamaki (who’s sitting beside him, purposefully _not_ looking at them), he would try to be subtle, or tactful, or show some empathy. But Mattsun is not Hanamaki. Or a human being at all.

“Who ran over your dog?” he asks, voice a monotone and thick eyebrows in a line.

Tooru twist his lips in a childish moue.

“I don’t have a dog, Mattsun,” he replies.

Hanamaki still doesn’t look up, but says, “It’s a metaphor, Oikawa”.

Their books are soon forgotten on the table, pens and pencils rolling a bit down the pages until they stop. A clock ticks by somewhere in the house, and their legs touch a little under the kotatsu because they are bigger than most boys their age.

Shit, this is so not a conversation Tooru wants to have right now.

“It’s just—” he starts. Sighs. Tries again, “It’s just graduation day.”

Hanamaki glances from his messy notebook.

Mattsun keeps staring at him.

“And college,” he adds, still in a monotone. Not really asking.

Okay, so people who have a scary sixth sense: mothers and Matsukawa Issei.

Tooru nods, defeated. His eyes catch on what he was writing for his Literature class. It makes no sense.

(Ha! There’s a metaphor).

“Look,” Hanamaki starts before Mattsun can say something tactless and true, “things are going to be fine, you know? Like, we are all scared—”

“Talk for yourself”

“Shut it, Matsukawa,” Hanamaki grunts, then looks at Tooru, “Like I was saying, we are all scared because it’s new, but it’ll turn out okay.”

There’s a pause. Tooru fakes a grin. Mattsun blinks slowly.

“Have you talked to Iwaizumi about this?”

Damn Matsukawa Issei and his ancestors and his house and everything he holds dear.

“Kind of,” Tooru lies. He’s getting pretty good at lying, and he hates it. “But you know how thick he is.”

He giggles. Mattsun arches an eyebrow.

From his place over his Chemistry book, Hanamaki snorts.

“Yeah, I’m sure _he’s_ the thick one.”

They drop the conversation after that.  
  
  
  
  
**From Iwaizumi:**  
hey, oikawa

 **From Iwaizumi:**  
i wanted to ask you something

 **To Iwaizumi:**  
???

 **From Iwaizumi:**  
the other day, at your house

 **To Iwaizumi:**  
iwa-chan! don’t mention my moment of weakness! that’s mean!

 **To Iwaizumi:**  
iwa-chan?

 **From Iwaizumi:**  
whatever

 **From Iwaizumi:**  
forget i said anything  
  
  
  
  
Takeru finds him brooding in the living room a few days after the Awkward Study Session and Tooru decides things are getting out of control.

“You’re brooding,” the kid says.

Takeru looks so much like his father. He doesn’t have the Oikawa eyes or hair. He’s still cute, though.

“I’m not.”

(He totally is.)

“Sure,” Takeru answers quickly and plops down next to him on the sofa. He’s a smart kid. And talented. He will be a great volleyball player one day. “Did your girlfriend break up with you again?”

Tooru bristles.

“First,” he says in an indignant voice, “that time it wasn’t her who broke up with me. And second, no. There has been no breaking up because I’m not dating anyone.”

(Okay, so Tooru may not be the kindest person alive, but he’s not an asshole. He liked the girls he dated. They were funny and dressed nicely and smelled sweet. They were bold enough to hold his hand on dates and they would let him kiss them softly on the lips.

He really liked them.

Their only flaw was that they weren’t Iwaizumi Hajime).

Takeru hums and presses against Tooru.

“Is this about volleyball, then?” he asks. “About losing to Kageyama-san?”

Tooru feels his cheeks go red with anger.

“Do not mention Tobio-chan to me or I will kick you out.”

Takeru laughs.

“Nah, you won’t,” he giggles.

Little demon.

They grow silent after that, warm and comfortable on the sofa. They stay there for a while, thinking about nothing and saying nothing. Just breathing and melting against the cushions. It’s nice. Tooru at least thinks it’s nice.

Takeru’s fingers find his sleeve.

“This is about Iwaizumi-san and you going to different universities,” he says.

It’s not a question.

Smart and talented, his nephew.

Tooru sighs.

“Yes.”

(It’s about them being separated. It’s about them growing up. It’s about Iwaizumi acting weird lately. It’s about Tooru being in love with him since forever.)

Takeru nods and sighs a little.

“Iwaizumi-san is a cool person,” he says, and maybe Tooru isn’t the only Oikawa family member with a crush on stubborn Iwaizumi Hajime. “I’m sure he’s not-brooding too,” he adds with a wicked voice. “But you should tell him anyway.”

Takeru’s eyes are fierce and determined when they look at Tooru.

 _You should tell him_.

Yeah, maybe he should.  
  
  
  
  
These are things normal best friends do: hang out, play video games, talk about who they like. Normal best friends pat themselves on the back, and support each other, and have arguments when one of them is being an asshole. Normal best friends text each other moderately and back off when things are too much.

These are things normal best friends don’t do: hug tightly after sharing presents, faces so close together a nose traces a circle on a cheek, or lips get dangerously near lips, or hands get tangled and fingers laced together. Normal best friends do not cuddle for hours until the sun sets and their hearts feel like they’re breaking.

Normal best friends do not want to kiss until the world stops.  
  
  
  
  
**From Iwaizumi:**  
hey, loser

 **From Iwaizumi:**  
you are late

 **From Iwaizumi:**  
you are always fucking late

 **From Iwaizumi:**  
damn it

 **From Iwaizumi:**  
just get your ass over here  
  
  
  
  
Iwaizumi is wearing the ugly Christmas sweater when they meet. He has a beanie over his tousled hair and a thick scarf around his neck. Tooru remembers when they were seven and their mothers used to dress them in layers and layers of fabric. Back then Iwaizumi had scratches all over his face and arms from jumping and climbing trees and hunting beetles. Tooru, on the other hand, was chubby and shy, his head up in the clouds and his fingers sticky with paint.

Sometimes he wonders how they came to be such close friends with how different they were.

(Are.)

“Hey,” Iwaizumi says when he sees Tooru, fingerless red gloves waving in the air.

Tooru smiles and bumps shoulders with him. Down the hill, people press together to see the fireworks. Crowds of neighbors and friends waiting excitedly for midnight, looking like tiny ants from the edge of the cliff. Next to him, Iwaizumi grunts.

“Shit, I forgot to buy sparklers.”

Tooru blinks and looks at him. He’s fidgeting and that’s new. Iwaizumi doesn’t fidget.

“You hate sparklers,” Tooru says, slightly confused.

Maybe it’s a trick of the light, but Iwaizumi looks slightly flushed for a second. He shrugs his shoulders and rolls his eyes.

“But you don’t.”

Oh.

Tooru bites on his lower lip and stares at his shoes. He puts out his elbow and jabs Iwaizumi gently on his side.

( _You should tell him_.)

Down the hill, people cheer. Someone with a megaphone is talking about New Year, and the bells, and the fireworks. Just like every year since they’ve been born.

Iwaizumi sighs.

“I can’t believe it’s almost over,” he says.

Tooru clenches and unclenches his fists inside his pockets. His nose is frozen.

“Winter break?” he ventures.

Iwaizumi looks like he comes from another world under the streetlights and the Christmas decorations hanging all over town. Tooru is trying very hard not to stare at him.

He’s failing.

“High school,” Iwaizumi corrects.

There’s silence after that. Something thick and heavy between them, just like in Tooru’s bedroom on Christmas day. After a very long hug and tears dried on wool. Things they better not put a name to if they want to avoid broken hearts.

Iwaizumi stares down at the people gathering around to see the fireworks.

Tooru stares at him.

(And he should talk now. He should, shouldn’t he? Before it’s too late. Before he gets on a train and goes far away and Iwaizumi is nothing but a blur in the distance.

And he tries. He really tries, but his throat isn’t working and his lips are frozen shut and he feels like he might throw up if he—)

“How long?” Iwaizumi asks suddenly, his voice low and unsteady.

Tooru can’t help but start.

“How long what?”

Down the hill people start counting backwards from fifteen.

New Year is almost upon them.

Iwaizumi sighs again, annoyed, and turns to him. He seems nervous. His eyes are dark and troubled and there’s no mistake, his cheeks are pink.

( _I wanted to ask you something_.)

Tooru feels a shiver go from his ankles to the tips of his ears, and he’s suddenly nervous too. Very nervous. Breath coming out in small, quick clouds.

Iwaizumi swallows.

“How long are you going to make me wait, Oikawa?”

 _Oh_.

He could lie. He could lie and say he has not idea what Iwaizumi is talking about. He could play it off with a huge, confused grin and his head tilted to the side. He could waste this opportunity and not have another one for months, years, eons.

But Tooru knows perfectly well what Iwaizumi means because apparently, the thing about best friends is that they have some secrets they share with no one, not even you.

“Hajime, I—”

Eight seconds to go.

Iwaizumi grunts. His fingers catch on Tooru’s jacket.

“I’m done with waiting, you little shit.”

Oh, god. Tooru is done with waiting too.

(One second).

They lean in at the same time. In the distance, the fireworks go off. The new year arrives.

Iwaizumi’s lips are warm on his.  
  
  
  
  


**Author's Note:**

> i said i would write a drabble. now i look at the word count and i just ????????? i'm a piece of trash


End file.
